A Danger to Herself and Others(70)
My parents do not look assured.
PART THREE
outside
forty-seven
Leaving the property today feels different than it did the day of my hearing. I’m still alone in the back seat, but my parents’ rental car is a black SUV with smooth leather seats rather than an inexpensive sedan like the car Stephen drove. The gate at the end of the driveway swings open to let us leave (we don’t have to punch in a key code; whoever controls the gate must have known we were coming). I crane my neck after we drive through, watching the gate swing shut behind us. I gaze up at the Santa Cruz Mountains. The sun is out, but the tops of the mountains are covered in fog, like it’s waiting to roll back down later.
I wonder how long it will be before another patient moves into my room. Maybe some new girl is already there. Maybe they’ve already taken her clothes and given her a fresh set of papery green pajamas. Maybe she’s counting her steps, gazing out the window, already wondering how long she’ll be trapped inside.
Lightfoot told me that not all the girls at the institute are there by court order. Some are sent by their parents or teachers. Some even commit themselves voluntarily because they know they’re sick. I asked if Cassidy was one of those volunteers, but Lightfoot wouldn’t tell me. Doctor/patient confidentiality and all that.
I said that I used to think she didn’t care about doctor/patient confidentiality. “You know, since we had our sessions with Lucy in the room.”
Maybe one day I’ll look back and realize that so much of what I thought about my stay at the institute was wrong.
“We talked to your teachers. You’ll be able to go back to school soon,” Mom begins. She doesn’t turn to face me when she speaks. I’m sitting behind the driver’s seat and my father is the one driving, so I’m able to see Mom’s profile.
“But I missed a month.” September seventh seems like so much more than a month ago.
Mom shrugs. She still doesn’t turn. “You’re such a good student that they’re confident you’ll be able to catch up. And they’ll take your illness into account when calculating grades.”
Mom says the word illness carefully, like she planned this conversation days ago and took some time to decide the best wording.
“Do they know what’s wrong with me?”
“The teachers do, but they’ve assured us of confidentiality.”
“They’re not worried that I might…” I pause. “Have an episode?” I finish finally.
“Of course not. You heard what the doctor said.” I suspect she wants to sound more confident than she actually does.
I wonder where my classmates think I’ve been. It’s not the first time I’ve missed the beginning of the school year. I could say that my parents and I were on vacation again. I could come up with a good story: We were hiking in the Alps and an avalanche cut off the route back to town; there was no cell service, no way to get in touch. We lived in a cabin for nearly a month, eating roots and grubs that we dug out from under the snow. We collected wood to build a fire. We nearly froze to death.
No. That’s the kind of story a five-year-old would tell. And it’d be too easy to disprove. Someone could easily Google the weather in Switzerland and discover my lie.
I should be more mysterious about my absence. Drop hints about the “place” I was “sent,” the “treatment” I received. People would probably put the pieces together and guess I was in rehab. Some of my classmates would even think it’s cool.
Of course, there’s one way my classmates could find out the truth: I could tell them. I could make an example of myself—the young patient fighting to remove the stigma that surrounds mental illness. It’s the kind of crusade my mother would pick up with gusto. But then, why does she sound so pleased that my teachers have been sworn to secrecy? Maybe it would be easier for her to take up this cause if it were someone else’s daughter.
Lightfoot’s voice: Hannah isn’t the only one who has to adjust to the reality of living with this disease. (Not a hallucination; a memory.)
“And you still have plenty of time to get your college applications done,” Mom adds. “Though, of course, the doctor thinks it would be best if you limited your search to universities closer to home for now.”
“Lightfoot or the new doctor?”
“Lightfoot?” Mom echoes with concern.
“That was my nickname for the doctor at the institute,” I mumble. I want to tell her that giving someone a nickname isn’t a symptom—in fact, it’s the sort of thing Mom would have found amusing before—but I’m not sure she’ll believe me.
“In any event,” she says, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in her pants, “both doctors agree that staying nearby will be best for you.”
I nod. Maybe they (the doctors? my parents? the university administrators?) won’t let me live in the dorms, so I’ll have to be a commuter student. Maybe the new doctor will suggest I keep my course load light, take an extra year or two to graduate if I need to.
Her path may be rockier than some.
I glance at Dad, but all I can see is the back of his head. I imagine his gaze is focused on the road ahead. Mom reaches out and pats his leg reassuringly.
Watching her touch him, I feel like an outsider. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. I don’t want to see them comforting each other, and I don’t want Mom to go on talking as though I can pick up where I left off. The sling forces me to keep my left arm folded across my chest. It almost feels like being held.